


Jeeves and the Songbird

by thesadchicken



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse, WODEHOUSE P. G. - Works
Genre: M/M, Songfic, because I love Cole Porter songs, these two have ruined my life in the best way possible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-07 00:19:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18399302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesadchicken/pseuds/thesadchicken
Summary: Bertie takes to serenading Jeeves at the piano - the only problem is that he doesn't seem to realise it.





	Jeeves and the Songbird

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Дживс и певчая птичка](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20880641) by [dokhtar_vatzzan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dokhtar_vatzzan/pseuds/dokhtar_vatzzan)



> This happened because I'm a huge Cole Porter fan and because I read too much Wodehouse.   
> Please be gentle with me, this is my first Jeeves/Wooster fanfic.

Jeeves – my man, you know – is really an exceptional chap. Some will tell you that Bertram Wooster is prone to exaggeration, and on many occasions this may be true; however in this sitch they would be terribly wrong, for I am telling you the entire truth when I proclaim that Jeeves excels at everything. Yes, _everything_.

I was pondering this one afternoon while tickling the ivories, as it were, when the man himself shimmied into the room in that particular fashion of his.

‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘is there nothing you cannot do?’

‘Sir?’

‘Just the other day, you explained to me the origin of clouds. And remember the incident with the violin? Not to mention your knowledge of those Greek thingummies – the ones with the rummy names, there are so many of them, you know the Johnnies – I mean to say, what?’

‘I am flattered, sir,’ Jeeves bowed his head slightly.

I returned to the piano, for there seemed nothing more to say. The thought still danced around in the Wooster brain, however, that if Jeeves were a bird, he’d be one of those rare exotic types. Not a flamingo, mind you. Not a parrot, either, and certainly not a Rainbow Lorikeet. No, Jeeves would be a dignified bird, uncommon but majestic, the way a Hoopoe or a Golden Pheasant is. Certainly the best of birds.

And then another thought struck: Jeeves would be the best of anything, really. After that, the third thought that managed to find its way into the old bean was not really a thought but a song, and it slipped through my fingers and onto the piano. I sang along.

‘ _You're the top! You're the Coliseum,_

_You're the top! You're the Louvre Museum,_

_You're a melody from a symphony by Strauss,_

_You're a Bendel bonnet, a Shakespeare sonnet,_

_You're Mickey Mouse!_ ’

I heard Jeeves rearranging the furniture behind me. I didn’t have to turn around to know that even at rearranging furniture, Jeeves was nothing short of an expert. It made one feel rather silly sometimes, to be constantly exposed to such a paragon, when one knows perfectly well that one’s own aptitudes – if aptitudes is the word I want – are somewhat limited. Not that the man would ever flaunt his talents. No, not Jeeves. He excelled even at humility and unpretentiousness.

‘ _You're the Nile, you're the Tower of Pisa,_

_You're the smile on the Mona Lisa._

_I'm a worthless check, a total wreck, a flop,_

_But if, Baby, I'm the bottom,_

_You're the top!_ ’

Now perhaps here I should have stopped and asked myself why I was so literally singing the praises of my valet. Perhaps I should have steered the Wooster hands away from the piano before it became too obvious. Perhaps – but it was no use denying the truth. I admired Jeeves above all men.

‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘it is no use denying the truth. I admire you above all men.’

I stopped playing, waiting for a reply. There was a sudden stillness in the room. I pressed a single finger to the piano to fill the silence.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Jeeves finally replied, in a respectful but dispassionate voice.

I shrugged off my misplaced disappointment at the coolness of my man’s response. There was, after all, no reason for it. A fellow mustn’t expect more than the proper amount of gratitude when complimenting his employee. With this in mind, I rearranged my music sheets and was about to get up when an unusual movement caught my eye.

It was Jeeves, hovering beside the piano, looking rather expectant, like a hungry hound waiting to be fed – provided said h.h were of the most dignified sort, you know, the best of h.hs and all that. Perhaps a Norwegian buhund, or an Alaskan Malamute. One of those attractive beasts that one cannot look upon without a sigh and a deep appreciation for the majesty of nature.

But we are wondering from the point. The point being, as I said, that Jeeves was hovering.

To the untrained eye, this might seem unworthy of concern. But I knew Jeeves better than anyone, and I knew that he did not hover. He glided from room to room, tending to the young master’s every need and whim, and once he was finished with his duties he found something equally useful to do. Not a moment of idleness or, I say it again, _hovering_.

‘Yes, Jeeves?’ I said as I turned on the piano bench to face him.

The man staggered and swayed on his feet, as if caught off-guard. So unusual was the sight that my eyes widened in disbelief.

‘I do apologize, sir,’ he said, ‘I was under the impression that you were to continue playing the piano.’

‘Oh,’ I nodded, still quite stunned, ‘I see. No, I thought I might prop my feet up and rest for a while. Better to get those prescribed forty winks, what?’

‘Very good, sir. Shall I wake you at six?’

‘Yes, please do, Jeeves.’

But try as I might, the eyelids remained firmly stuck to the sockets, and sleep evaded me. I was concerned with Jeeves’ moment of flimsiness, and then I became concerned with my own concern for said m. of f. It was all dashed complicated, and it was starting to give me a headache when I suddenly came to an alarming conclusion: Jeeves had been waiting for me to finish the song – hence the hovering and the flimsiness.

Now, I am the first to admit that this Wooster is not, perhaps, the brightest of chaps. Be that as it may, I do not consider myself a complete idiot either. I knew of Jeeves’ distaste for popular music. I had tried many times to soften his heart by playing the cheeriest tunes I knew: it was no use. Where I bobbed my head along to Cole Porter and Irving Berlin, Jeeves would rather spend the evening listening to one of those classical chappies of his.

You will understand my alarm, then, when I found that he had quite unexpectedly changed his mind.

Unless it wasn’t the song itself, but the meaning behind it, that had provoked such an unprecedented reaction in my valet. At this, the Wooster heart fluttered. Had the young master’s praise truly moved Jeeves?

The idea awakened in me a feeling I’d never quite known before. It was almost the same silly urge to impress that a young lad experiences in school, in front of his classmates and teachers – except it wasn’t silly at all. It was positively heart-wrenching and wonderful, to feel that Bertram Wooster had finally breached the Jeevesian fortress and touched a chord. If I daresay – and I do –, it was a feat no other man could have claimed.

 

 

The next day, I sat at the piano once more and was inevitably reminded of the previous afternoon’s achievement. Pride welled up in the Wooster chest, and I wondered if I could stir Jeeves once more. Inspiration struck when the man walked into the room with a tray and a cup of tea, and gently handed me said c. of t. I took one sip then immediately brought my hands down onto the keys.

_What sugar does for tea,_

_That's what you do for me,_

_You're the cream in my coffee,_

_You're the salt in my stew_

_You will always be my necessity,_

_I'd be lost without you!_

The song had the desired effect. I watched Jeeves out of the corner of my eye, and there he was, hovering again, dash it! I continued, emboldened by the results.

_You're the starch in my collar,_

_You're the lace in my shoe,_

_You will always be my necessity,_

_I'd be lost without you!_

I wished I could openly gape at him, if only to see the look on his face as I expressed my appreciation through song. Sadly, I felt this would make him shut up like a clam, and that was the opposite of what I wanted. So I sang, only daring a fugitive glance or two, but knowing that I had once again made Jeeves stop in his tracks to listen, distracting him from his duties. It was proof that he understood the songs were for him, and that he _cared_!

After this, I became dependant on the feeling. Like a drunk, I craved it. Whether I was in bed having my breakfast or in the sitting room reading, my mind always seemed to wonder back to that bally piano and to how my singing made Jeeves all flimsy and awkward. I had the notion that if I could repeat the experiment successfully, everything in the world would be oojah-cum-spiff.

For weeks, I yielded to the impulse. I would choose the song based on the situation, making sure it was directly related to the present so that Jeeves understood I was playing for him. And I knew beyond a doubt that he did, but the rummy thing was that he never mentioned it – not once. Not even a polite ‘thank you sir’. He just hovered, waited until the song was over, then biffed off.

Perhaps this was a warning. Perhaps it was Fate’s way of saying ‘Right ho, Young Bertram, that’s enough of this songbird business!’, but we Woosters are nothing if not tenacious – if tenacious is the word I want. I persisted, determined to stop only when Jeeves deigned to respond.

Soon the wonderful feeling lost its wonder, and all I stood to gain from my blasted performances was a response that didn’t come.  I grew impatient and frantic, rather like Bingo when he’s spotted a beasel for the first time. I was starting to get weary of this rannygazoo. I mean to say, surely a small nod and a heartfelt comment weren’t too much to ask of Jeeves?

I sat at the Drones one morning complaining about it to Freddie Widgeon, who had offered me a gasper and a drink and asked me why I was being “such a gloomy pill”.

‘Freddie, old fruit,’ I told him, ‘How would you feel if you’d been complimenting someone for quite some time – being all charming and witty, you know – only to find that your compliments were met with utter silence?’

‘Charming and witty, eh?’ Freddie said in doubtful way, ‘How so?’

‘What do you mean “how so”?’

‘I mean how so?’

‘By singing, for example. It’s no use gawking at me like that, Freddie. Honouring someone by singing them a song is quite common.’

‘Ah yes, you mean serenading someone,’ Freddie nodded, ‘I’ve serenaded girls in the past. Not that it did me any good. I often find that my compliments are met with utter silence, if not worse.’ He sighed heavily.

‘Serenade?’ I frowned.

‘Yes,’ he answered.

‘What do you mean “serenade”?’

‘I mean serenade.’

‘No, no, no,’ I shook my head vehemently, ‘This was an ordinary compliment between chums.’

Freddie raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Really, Bertie, I don’t think chums serenade each other.’

Here I found myself in quite an uncomfortable posish. Things were starting to rearrange themselves inside the Wooster brain, much like puzzle pieces. It was all clicking into place. Feelings and yearnings and urges that had seemed absurd in the past finally made sense. And then this _serenading_ – the way I had delighted in Jeeves’ hovering and lingering, and then how I had longed for a different reaction, growing restless and melancholy – by Jove, I was absolutely potty about Jeeves!

‘I say, Bertie,’ Freddie said as he waved a hand in front of me, ‘You’ve turned awfully pale. You aren’t ill, are you?’

I left the Drones and wandered alone for some time. I felt a complete fool for not having noticed before – it had happened right under my nose! How a fellow can walk around catching all these bally feelings without noticing, I don’t know. And yet there it was. I was in love with Jeeves, and the more I thought about it the more I realised how dashed hopeless it was.

Even if he, paragon of men, could ever feel anything but avuncular love for the young master, and even if his love were strong enough to seek mine in return, Jeeves’ feudal spirit would prevent him from doing so. He had heard the songs, after all. He had listened to the words with what seemed to me like genuine interest, and yet he’d ultimately ignored them.

Dread wrapped itself around the Wooster heart. Jeeves knew, then! He knew, but he remained silent. This time I heard the call of Fate and heeded it. ‘What a perfect idiot you are, Young Bertram!’ it seemed to snicker.

I returned home gloomier than ever. Jeeves was there, naturally, and the sight of him gave me quite a pang of emotion. I handed him my hat and coat, shivering when his skin touched mine.

‘I trust you’ve had a good day, sir?’ he asked.

‘Er – yes, yes rather.’

It was awkward, to say the least, having to stand in front of one’s valet and pretend not to notice how the light played upon his finely chiselled features. I looked away. It wouldn’t do to dwell on Jeeves’ f. c. fs.

I let myself fall into a chair and stared out the window. The sun had barely set, but dark clouds gathered near the horizon, blackening the sky. Ghastly weather to match my ghastly mood.

‘Sir, while you were out, I took the liberty of removing the pink socks from your wardrobe,’ Jeeves said, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

God knows I had been fond of those pink socks, but at that moment Jeeves could have asked for the moon on a string, I would have climbed the stars to get it for him.

‘Right ho,’ I answered.

Jeeves paused, and although he tried to hide it, I could see the look of surprise on his face. ‘Should I throw them out, sir?’ His eyes were of the softest grey, and I wondered if he’d always looked at me with such care and concern.

‘Whatever you like, Jeeves,’ I said.

He frowned. ‘Very good, sir.’

I watched Jeeves leave the room. With a sigh, the last of the Woosters got up. At the piano he sat, and down onto the keys he pressed, and out of his lips poured a song.

_You'd be so easy to love_

_So easy to idolize all others above_

_So worth the yearning for_

_So swell to keep every home fire burning for_

I thought I heard a sound from the kitchen, like a spoon falling on the ground, but I decided to ignore it and kept on singing.

_And we would be so grand at the game_

_Carefree together that it does seem a shame_

_That you can't see your future with me_

_'Cause you'd be, oh, so easy to love_

 

 

It was Jeeves’ evening off when I found a piece of paper, folded in half, on my pillow. On it were written in small left-leaning letters the following words:

“You do not know how longingly I look upon you,  
You must be he I was seeking.”

 

When Jeeves opened the door at eight-thirty, my arms were instantly around him. A song was on my mind, but the piano was across the room, so I played it with my lips on his.

**Author's Note:**

> The songs Bertie serenades Jeeves with are "You're the Top" (Cole Porter), "You're the Cream in My Coffee" (Ray Henderson, Buddy G. DeSylva and Lew Brown) and "(You'd Be So) Easy to Love" (Cole Porter).
> 
> The note Jeeves leaves Bertie is an extract from Walt Whitman's poem "To A Stranger".


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